Sunday of my Life

The familiar road winds back and forth. Not so familiar anymore, as they’ve recently paved it, but the country is still there, around the new asphalt. Rolling hills, largely green after the recent rains; here, a herd of Black Angus cows grazing on fresh grass; there, the yellow-white clouds of sheep, gathered around the edge of a dam, drinking their fill. For me, this will always represent peace. A serene place which was always safe. A place where there were animals, and things to do. A childhood full of adventure to be had.

And always there, there were two people. Two special people, who meant the world to me. My grandparents, who owned the farm. The Farm on the Mountain. Another home. A place that was always there, and that I always had a part of with me, even when I wasn’t there. And they were always there.

It felt strange to go up there this year, for the annual family get-together. Always before the sight of the familiar hills brought a feeling of serenity over me. Peaceful, that’s what it’s always been. Quiet, and peaceful. But this year, each moment that brought us closer to the farm gates made me more and more apprehensive. Something was different, and I knew exactly what it was. One of the people who made the place special for me was gone, never to return. It didn’t make the place any less special, nor did it in any way diminish what the remainder of the pair, my grandmother, brings to the place. But it just felt… strange.

I had a good time, though. I’m never comfortable in crowds. Large gatherings of people always make me nervous, make me feel out of place, and very much like I’m being watched, and judged. But it’s different, with these people. Every year my family gets bigger, and every year the gathering gets bigger. People marry into the family, and children are born. New partners are gained, and introduced, and welcomed. But it’s always comfortable, and always fun. This year was no different. There was a current of sadness through it all. Someone very special to the whole family wasn’t there to share the day with us. He loved nothing quite so much as having his entire extended family in one place, so many people, all talking and laughing and being together. And that’s something which should make these gatherings all the more special for us, I feel. By doing it, we become closer, and we honour his memory.

No one ever really dies, so long they’re still remembered.

This entry was posted on Tuesday, December 25th, 2007 at 11:50 pm and is filed under General, Memories. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can skip to the end and leave a response. Pinging is currently not allowed.